Early Exposure
by Ryuuza
Summary: [FujiRyo] It's a daily ritual to meet on the roof...but Fuji is late today. And Ryoma is distracted.


_Warnings_: Yaoi. Shameless smut. PWP. Thrill Pair. Boy on boy love. And…yes. I think that covers it.

_Disclaimer_: Konomi-sensei would cry if I owned it. But, hey, I'd be happy! XD

_Notes_: Posted on LJ previously; written b/c Fuji-muse wanted smut and Ryoma-muse didn't protest (much).

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**Early Exposure**  
by Ryuuza

Ryoma had been exposed to sex at a young age. He blamed his perverted father (who was still getting hit on a daily basis by Ryoma's mother, his cousin, or sometimes even a random woman the idiot had managed to offend). Regardless of his early exposure, though, the young tennis wonder had viewed the whole matter with an apathy bordering on distaste—anything his father took such pleasure in couldn't possibly be any good. Besides, it had nothing to do with tennis, and so he wasn't interested.

It took one sadistic senpai, a deserted locker room, and a questionably legal encounter in Ryoma's first year at Seigaku High to change that.

But Echizen Ryoma didn't have casual hobbies or mild interests; he had only obsessions that he gave himself wholly to. One such passion was tennis. And, at age fifteen, Ryoma discovered a second: touching Fuji Syusuke.

At first, it began in retaliation for his senpai's "innocent" caresses and lingering touches as Ryoma's half-thought out attempt to make Fuji blush as much as he. It was ill-fated from the beginning and Ryoma only found himself routinely flushing day in and day out, as the other boy smiled serenely, unruffled. But after the first month of sheer embarrassment and fierce self-denial, Ryoma tentatively began touching Fuji because he wanted to. He liked the feel of his senpai's uniform under his hands, and the soft and silky hair between his fingers, and he grew to know the texture of Fuji's skin. And occasionally, when he was feeling particularly agreeable, Fuji would even allow Ryoma to see how much _he_ appreciated Ryoma's touches. His eyes would open and the younger boy would bear witness to a sharply defined emotion swimming in those blue depths—and it would make him flush, scowl, and lean forward to kiss Fuji so couldn't see those eyes piercing him anymore.

Ryoma had discovered that he liked spending time with Fuji, too, outside of school and the tennis club (which, of course, they were both still on), and enjoyed being with him beyond the simple pleasure of touching and being touched. It was different, though, from when Ryoma went out with Momoshiro or Eiji—those two were loud and blunt and simple to understand, if annoying to put up with at times. Fuji, on the other hand, was _always_ smiling and far more subtle in his use of wit or sarcasm or even compliments, and Ryoma often found himself outmaneuvered in a game he hadn't known he was playing. But since it usually resulted in an amused Fuji pressing a kiss to Ryoma's willing, if surprised or sulking, mouth, it was okay.

All that aside, though, suffice to say that Ryoma liked Fuji well enough, and even if he was still wary of the tensai's sadistic nature, he was willing to put up with it for the sex.

Ryoma had also discovered, in that year of discoveries, that he quite liked sex. A small part of him took sadistic pleasure in knowing he was fulfilling his father's constant wishes and incessant whines—but in a _completely_ different manner than intended. He liked to picture the baka oyaji's expression, sometimes, should he ever discover what his son was up to. …Ryoma really had been spending too much time with Fuji. But it was worth it.

Fuji was equally talented at everything he put his mind to as he was at tennis. Ryoma had no room for complaint (though he still did, occasionally, just to keep his senpai's ego in check, but not as often as might be expected because Fuji usually retaliated with a smile and no sex for two weeks). He could even venture to say he was fairly content with his life at the moment—he was on Seigaku High's tennis team, he got to touch Fuji on a daily basis, and he still got free food whenever he went out to eat. (Oh the joys of senpai; Ryoma was planning on milking Momoshiro dry for his incessant teasing over the mark he'd discovered on Ryoma's collarbone last week.) All in all, life was pretty good.

But Ryoma was _not_ happy at the moment. Far from it, in fact. He was _not_ content, _not_ satisfied, and really, just _not_ anywhere _near_ happy.

Because, you see, Fuji was late.

It was Thursday, which meant there was no tennis practice in the morning. Which meant, in turn, that Fuji and Ryoma met on the roof an hour before classes so Ryoma could get his "touch Fuji" fix for the day.

And today, Fuji was _late._

Ryoma glowered at the distant building visible from where he was slumped over the railing. Damn that smiling, sadistic senpai of his—he was probably doing this on _purpose_. He never had before, and if Fuji was ever late (which was rare in itself), he usually had a perfectly legitimate excuse. But Ryoma didn't want to linger on those possibilities; he wouldn't put it past Fuji to be late for the sheer purpose of making his kohai uncomfortable.

It was a little chilly but the golden-eyed boy didn't feel it. His uniform was coverage plenty and besides that, he was flushed from the dream that had sent him hurrying out of the house and to school—just to find Fuji _late_. Again, he scowled, and pondered ways to get revenge for his current misery. It couldn't have anything to do with withholding sex because Fuji always won at those games and Ryoma couldn't help it if he liked being touched, dammit.

He slumped further against the rail, resting his chin on the cold metal bar, and recalled snatches of the dream from early morning… He had been out at the burger place with Fuji, Inui, Ryuzaki, and Osakada. He had no idea what they were doing, but it had made sense in the dream. Ryoma hadn't focused on them much anyway—Osakada was talking loudly as usual (Ryoma wasn't listening), Ryuzaki was staring and blushing at her food, and Inui and Fuji and been discussing some new strategy or training or something.

Ryoma had been minding his own business, eating his burgers and fries, when he felt a hand slide up his thigh. He had started a tiny bit and looked up, noticing Fuji's smile widen slightly as he continued his conversation with Inui. The hand was warm and settled comfortably mid-thigh and Ryoma had grown accustomed to it, so he ignored it and continued eating.

Then the hand had started moving upward, stroking slightly, with just enough pressure that it didn't tickle, but lightly enough to scrape the fabric of Ryoma's pants against his now sensitive skin. His breath had hitched, stomach tightening, as the hand continued its path along his thigh.

He had wanted to hit something, preferably his senpai, for doing something like this in public; yet, at the same time, he was slightly excited. No one else noticed, and the girls kept doing whatever it was they did, and Inui was adjusting his glasses and Fuji was smiling and saying something about Kaidoh's diet, and his hand was still inching its way toward Ryoma's crotch.

And he couldn't deny that he was hard then, as he blinked at his half-eaten cheeseburger, throat tight and body tense. Then he'd had to bite his lip, ducking his head, when those long fingers slid between his legs, pressing on his arousal. He tried to look as normal as possible, reaching his hand out for his drink--hand shaking just the slightest bit—but it was hard when Fuji ran his fingers along his length, slow and teasing, rubbing gently.

It had been hard to swallow his Coke but Ryoma did it and desperately avoided looking across the table at Inui, hoping Fuji would keep him distracted enough that he didn't notice the flush on the younger boy's cheeks or his new breathing pattern, breaths coming in short, silent gasps.

He had gripped his burger as tightly as he dared, knowing a white-knuckled hold on his food would definitely raise suspicion, and stared glassily down at it, awareness singing along his veins as Fuji continued moving his hand up and down between Ryoma's legs. His throat was dry and he wanted to be alone with Fuji, wanted to grab that hand moving so maddeningly slow and force it to apply more pressure, wanted to lean over and catch that smiling mouth with his own, wet and hot, and he wanted those eyes to open and stare at him with nothing but lust. He wanted to move.

He would strip the uniform jacket off Fuji with a practiced hand, aided by a frantic need to feel the soft skin he'd memorized and see it flushed, and he'd swing his legs over Fuji's lap and straddle him and—

"Sorry, I'm late," whispered a familiar voice as a warm body pressed against Ryoma's back.

He started, making as if to ease away from the railing he'd unconsciously been moving up and down against, but Fuji stayed immobile and Ryoma got a sharp nip to his jaw for his trouble. He glared at Fuji, even as he turned around to face him, hand sliding into tousled brown hair. "Don't be." He lifted his face, pulling the other boy down toward him.

"Be sorry?" asked Fuji amusedly, lips barely a breath away.

"Late." Annoyed, Ryoma tugged Fuji down the rest of the way and their mouths met, already open, Ryoma's eager and Fuji's welcoming. They pressed close, tongues tangling, the kiss warm and intimate and Fuji slid his hands around the younger boy, one coming to a comfortable rest on his bottom and the other inching beneath his top, fingers stroking.

Ryoma jerked back, eyes wide, heaving and short of breath. Fuji merely smiled at him, eyes half-lidded with long lashes, before he pulled Ryoma back into the kiss, pressing his back against the railing. Their mouths moved together, Ryoma's hand tightening in Fuji's hair and Fuji's hand sliding further up under Ryoma's shirt, and Ryoma was only aware of a vague dizziness as the sky seemed to spin above them.

Fuji shifted, slipping a leg between Ryoma's, and lifted his mouth in time to hear Ryoma's gasp. With deft fingers, he made quick work of the buttons of Ryoma's uniform and attached his mouth to the exposed skin, tongue flicking out to elicit moans.

Ryoma's hands, too, began drifting as he pressed his hips into Fuji's and rubbed himself against the other boy. He liked this, god yes, so much better than the taunting in his dream. This was _real_ and tangible and his throat was tight and his blood was all between his legs and his hands were sliding over Fuji's bottom, pulling him closer still.

He closed his eyes and whimpered when Fuji raised a hand to rub over Ryoma's chest, shifting the fabric of his clothes over his hardened nipple. His mouth continued to suck and lap and leave a trail of wet heat up Ryoma's neck, chilly when exposed to the morning air. The younger boy lifted a leg in an attempt to get closer, and heart pounding, ground his erection against Fuji's.

Fuji's breath escaped in a sudden burst of air, flirting with Ryoma's bared skin, and knowing that he had caused that reaction, and was also responsible for the hardness moving against his, made Ryoma light-headed. He clawed against Fuji's back, raising both legs to wrap around the other boy's waist until he was trapped fully between Fuji and the railing. Then his mouth was captured again, tongue sliding across his lips, then inside, probing and sure and familiar.

There was no room for words between them, only a hectic, frenetic need for touch. Fuji's collar found itself undone as well when Ryoma slid his hands over as much skin as he could touch. Their mouths parted and reattached and parted again, shared breaths hanging in the air and they moved in rhythm, aligning their erections so every slide brought a flush of white pleasure.

"Not," gasped Ryoma, "enough." He moved against Fuji, desperate, hard, wanting, needing…

Fuji slid a hand between them and Ryoma keened. He flung his head back as that clever, knowing hand that spotlighted his dreams worked against both their arousals, causing friction and heat and oh _god_—

As Ryoma clung to Fuji with his legs around the other boy's waist and his arms around his neck, Fuji worked his other hand between them and hastily undid Ryoma's pants and then his own, the sound of the zipper loud even against the background of their harsh breathing. And when they touched, skin to skin, a soft moan escaped even Fuji. They froze for a moment, memorizing the touch and the reveling in the heat of the _need_— Then Ryoma jerked his hips and Fuji kissed him and they were moving again, mindlessly, desperately.

They rocked against each other, against the railing, the cool air burning against their flushed skin. Fuji moved his hand, still between them, flicking his thumb over the head of Ryoma's erection and touched himself at the same time. Ryoma moaned into his mouth and they pressed harder, faster against each other, the need building and the rhythm increasing until it was only—touch, and oh _god –touch._

Ryoma's hands fisted as he felt the familiar pleasure building up inside him, faster and faster and he thrust his tongue back against Fuji's as—_oh god oh god oh god—finally—_

Ryoma came first, splattering over himself and Fuji's hand. He slumped against the tensai, forehead resting on his shoulder, as Fuji touched himself. He slid his hand over Fuji's, stroking his erection, watching the face that was always so composed and serene and smiling now painted with desire and need. He smiled briefly at the flush staining the skin and leaned up to lick the cheek, hand moving over Fuji's cock, and then the other boy jerked, and came.

Fuji held him close and Ryoma slowly slid his feet to the ground.

Ten minutes later, after cleaning up and readjusting their clothes, Ryoma watched Fuji pick up his school bag and scowled. "Don't be late anymore, Fuji-senpai."

The other boy tilted him a serene smile. "Saa…it's too late for that."

Ryoma glared, crossing his arms. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, annoyed.

"The bell just rang, Ryoma." Fuji pulled up his sleeve to indicate his watch. "Three minutes ago."

Ryoma was still cursing his senpai when he stumbled into class, red-faced as everyone turned to look at him and the teacher flashed him a disapproving frown. He might have liked Fuji for the sex, but he was really reconsidering the entire "being with Fuji" idea, because his boyfriend's sadistic side had left a wet swipe of tongue along his jaw and a quick fondle between his legs moments before Fuji had shoved him into the room.

_Damn_ Fuji, Ryoma groused.

-end-

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I am currently coordinating the Thrill Pair smut movement. Any aid you would like to offer in petitioning good authors (especially good FujiRyo writers) to explore the smutty side of the Fuji/Ryoma relationship would be greatly appreciated. It's a very self-rewarding job. XD And convincing those with artistic skills to illustrate some of those scenes you know are floating around in your mind would be a wonderful contribution to the TPSM too!

Also, please review. :3


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